I wrote this on the train. It's a poem (I suppose.)
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY THOUGHTS
I am having eighteenth century thoughts;
Urns and pyramids comfort me,
Hope is our anchor
(Or is it faith that is the anchor?)
And the Cross is our sure support.
The train goes north. At Wellingborough there are harvested fields behind a white picket fence and a man in tartan shorts (not an employee of the railway company) walks along the platform blessedly picking up litter.
Welcome to Northamptonshire
Rose of the Shires.
But no life is as lively as the life of London which I am leaving-
Its crowds unselected by race or religion-
And the stucco, ye gods and goddesses, the stucco!